A normal day.
An average man.
Not a lot to say about myself from my own point of view. I’d argue that I’m not particularly special in any regard, nor do I have any particular issues or grudges when it comes to who I am.
Sure I wouldn’t mind being a bit more handsome, maybe work on my body a smidge, but who doesn’t? Even if it’s only subconscious, every single person to ever exist has something that they’d like to change or fix about themselves.
Regardless, I’d say I’m pretty average. I have a relatively stable job, a decent house and quality of life, nothing really to complain about when you boil it down.
I work as a fisherman for the most part while spending time in the catalogue of my local library when things slow down. Which is fairly often if I’m being honest. Seasonal fishing is very much a thing, and when it’s your livelihood there can be fairly long stretches where you’re not out at sea.
Either way, it’s pretty quiet overall. Very much so how I like it. I’ve never been one for noise and being a busybody, I prefer things to just kinda happen day in and day out.
I’m realising, a bit late at this point, that I didn’t start with my name. Usually supposed to do that at the start when you write this kind of thing, not that it really bothers me.
My name is Eric Trembley, I know, a glorious name. I was born in 1980 on the 13th of June with an incredibly important and proud life ahead of me!
Okay I lied about that last part, but I did have a pretty good youth. Not to say I’m old and decrepit yet, I’m just also not exactly young either.
Ramblings aside, I decided to write this journal and or diary thing at the recommendation of my therapist. I’m not depressed or struggling with anything before you ask that, more so that I don’t really like doing nothing.
I said before that I’m not a busybody, sure. But that doesn’t mean that I like just sitting around being lazy, even if most of my holidays involve me sitting around my house with a handful of snacks. Even now, the only reason I’m writing in this book is because I don’t have anything better to do.
I’m sitting on a shaded park bench after stopping by the bookstore while I was on a walk to buy this very notebook. It’s a decent bit into the afternoon right now, some time past four I think. My watch ran out of battery yesterday and I haven’t gone out to nab another yet… I should probably do that on my way hom-
“Hey Eric! Is that you moping around on that bench? I thought you were busy being sad back at your place.” A voice calls out.
Looking up from my scrawling I see a man walking over to me at a casual pace. The man in question being a friend of mine named Martin, he has a weird habit of calling me things like ‘broody’, or ‘sollom’ as a joke.
Fair enough in all honesty, considering I throw jabs at him constantly. “Martin, I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s things with you?” I ask, getting up from the bench to give him a pat on the back.
“Annoying, that woman that keeps returning books saying it's not what she withdrew came back again. I’m almost tempted to ask the head to ban her from withdrawing things!”
Being one of the few people that religiously work at the library, I see him fairly often. Enough for, as he would say, ‘the anti-social Eric’ to find a friend or two that I can hang around with in my free time.
“Are you even allowed to do that?” I ask, knowing the backstory of this serial returner to be a long and recurring issue that he has to deal with.
“If I'm not, I'll petition to make it a thing, even if it kills me.” he jokes, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he were to actually do it. We hadn’t seen each other for a while recently due to an increase of me being out at sea, meaning that what would have been a casual greeting turned into a talk about the sins of being rude to front desk workers while we headed back to Martin's house.
“You're lucky. You don't even understand because you only work part time, she shows up like every other day.” He says, clearly disgruntled at having to deal with the same person so much.
Throwing bad puns and corny references back and forth as we go over how our lives have been the last few weeks, we end up talking about books, bringing me to remember something.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Ah, by the way. I finished the book you threw at me the other day, I’ll get it back to you when I come to the library next” I say.
The book In question was a fairly decent read, it was another of those ‘reincarnated’ types of books. Not my cup of tea, but it had good execution so I honestly can’t complain too much. Even if it wasn’t my main genre, I will admit that it was pretty satisfying to read.
“Oh right, thanks. I forgot about that book if I’m being honest.” He responds, seemingly brought back to reality from wherever a forgetful librarian goes when they aren't paying attention.
“What kind of librarian forgets what books he owns?” I stare at him with an overly dramatic horror that you wouldn’t see anywhere in the real world outside of those old movies with bad acting that you can’t stop watching on repeat.
He chuckles, “In my defence, um…” he then breaks out in a slow run, seemingly trying to get out of the grave he dug himself.
“Ha, if you think you can out run me when all you do is sort things all day then you are sorely mistaken!” I chase after him, fully intending to torture him until he remembers every single book he owns!
I jest, but you get my point.
After slow running for a bit we come to a steady pace and walk the rest of the small distance to Martin's house, chatting about random things that have happened around town, and being generally immersed in our own talking.
Reaching his house, I part ways with Martin, heading to my own residence for the night.
I arrive at my house in a good mood. I wasn’t expecting to bump into Martin today, but I like his company. Taking off my jacket and the book out of its pocket, I place them both on my kitchen counter while turning to go make some noodles.
Having finished making the noodles, I scurry away to my bedroom to eat them while watching one of those old movies. I’d watched this one a good ten times at this point, but even if I could remember almost every line in the entire thing, I still found myself coming back to rewatch it.
After finishing my movie with an empty noodle pot, I tuck my laptop into a little corner beside my bed while debating if I should run to the kitchen to put the pot in the sink or do it in the morning.
After a furious debate with my own thoughts, the lazy wins and I end up putting it on my bedside table for when I wake up.
Having had an exhausting day of doing some light garden work, going for a walk and watching a pre-sleep movie, I pull the covers on my bed over my shoulders and hope to drift to sleep in a timely manner.
Though as if to be a premonition for the coming day, I couldn’t help but have a sense of dread rooted somewhere at the back of my stomach.
I wake up still with the feeling, begging for attention, yet not showing itself. The kind of instinctual fear that comes from your body more so than your mind.
Not sure what to make of it, I swing my legs out of bed and rest them on the wood flooring of my house. Not entirely wanting to get up yet, I sit there for a moment before committing to waking up and pushing myself up and out of bed.
Yet just as I put my weight into the floor, I hear a low, long creaking sound. There wasn’t a creak by my bed that I remembered, at the very least not last night. Then again, the house I live in is a pretty old hillside cottage by the ocean.
Brushing it aside, I fully bring myself out of bed, standing up and doing a bit of stretching. The creak seemingly not wanting to go away by this point, I pack it away for a later date if I ever decide to fix the flooring.
That time probably should have been ages ago, but it hadn’t caused any issues thus far. Aside from the creaking of course, that's just part of the charm with older houses.
Grabbing the pot from my bedside, I start to walk over to the kitchen to wash it before having a shower. Only to be met by a far louder creak halfway through my room that seems to span the entire house. Now a bit unnerved, I ignore it yet again thinking that it was just part of the house, while making a mental note to check the foundation soon.
Almost as if to be a prophecy, the feeling in the back of my stomach surges right as I was about to take a step. Seemingly screaming at me to be cautious and not move hastily.
Fearing the worst now, I gingerly put a bit more weight onto one of my legs to test the waters a bit, only to hear a responding crack from something beneath me.
Followed by another, and then a low groan. Now sufficiently spooked, I try to slowly inch my way out of the room, making it to the door before hearing any major sounds.
You’d never expect some of the last sounds you’d hear would be wood snapping.
I stumble, yet not because my legs gave out.
The wall behind my splinters, and I involuntarily turn to look at it, only to witness it quite simply slip away and crumble as if it was never there.
It took me a good few moments before I realised that the floor had completely caved as well.
I tumbled
I fell
I bounced off a beam
I fell even more
Only to hear the cacophony of would splintering and cracking apart, the ground rumbling beneath it.
A thump as I hit something solid, and a slight ray of light breaks through my half open eyes, only to be blotted out by some sort of object hurtling towards me.